He Who Hunts The Hunter
by Random Phantom
Summary: An escape from jail sets Morse and Lewis on the trail of an old, familiar and feared enemy. Rated for some strong language in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

It was a cold, wet, winter's day, barely a week into the New Year. The rain bounced off the windscreen of the car, running down the flawless bodywork of the beautiful, dark red Jaguar Mark II. The dark, cloudy sky mirrored the mood of Chief Inspector Morse, as he drove towards the Thames Valley police station. He had been abruptly summonsed by Chief Superintendent Strange, who had very bluntly told him to get into the office post-haste in the wake of some sort of emergency situation. However, Morse had no idea what was going on, and there were no reports on the radio about anything out of the ordinary that might warrant his urgent attention.

He had therefore worked himself into quite a foul temper at having been called in to work on a late Sunday afternoon in such horrible weather by the time he pulled into the station car park and manoeuvred the Jaguar into his designated parking space. Climbing reluctantly out of the vehicle, he pulled his winter coat tighter around himself, as he hurried into the station.

Morse could not believe the scene that greeted him. The whole place was in uproar; it seemed that every CID officer had been called in, and they were rushing around in a frenzied manner. Morse grabbed a young sergeant who was dashing past him with an armful of files.

"Where's Lewis?" he snapped at him, ignoring the wide-eyed look of surprise at the roughness of the question.

"Don't know, sorry, sir," he replied; shrugged him off, and disappeared into a side-room.

Morse growled under his breath in a bad-tempered manner, storming through the corridors towards the Chief Super's office. Without bothering to knock, he grasped the handle and walked straight in – if Strange had the audacity to drag him into the office on a Sunday afternoon, Morse was not willing to wait around to find out the reason.

"Morse!" Strange almost leapt to his feet, but settled for glaring at him, holding the desk phone clamped to his ear; "get in here and close the door! Yes, hello? Yes, I'll call you back."

Slamming the phone down, Strange scowled at him; "It's about time you got here!"

"I came as soon as I could," Morse protested, "I was a little busy when you called, sir."

He did not point out that this "business" had included taking an additional fifteen minutes to finish a crossword, half an hour to shower and put on a suit, and ten minutes of wondering around the house, swearing to himself because he couldn't find the car keys.

"Yes, well," Strange glowered at him, as if seeing right through the comment, "you may not have noticed, Morse, but we've got a real situation on our hands!"

Morse sighed; "Well, it might help if you told me what the situation is, sir... I'm not psychic."

Strange opened his mouth to reply, when a knock at the door interrupted him, and instead he called; "Come in!"

The door opened quickly and Sergeant Lewis appeared; a harried expression on his face. While Morse was still wrapped up in his warm coat, Lewis had shed his suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and his tie was loose. His hair was also sticking up at odd angles, and Morse observed the classic indications of his Sergeant's habit of running his hands through his hair when stressed. And if Lewis was stressed about something, then Morse was suddenly a little more willing to take an interest; he relied on the Sergeant more than he would care to admit to anyone.

"Afternoon, sir," Lewis greeted him, quickly, and then turned to Strange, "Sir, we've had confirmation from the prison; we know who's escaped…"

Ah. That explained the chaos around the station; the last time Morse could recall having seen such panic had been the day that John Barrie, a serial rapist, had escaped from a secure psychiatric prison and returned to haunt the Oxford area.

"Well, who is it? Spit it out, man!" Strange ordered.

Lewis hesitated a moment longer, and then took a deep breath; "Sir… it's Jeremy Jackson."

* * *

There was stunned silence for a long moment. Morse's heart sank, and a cold feeling of dread crept over him... not Jackson... it couldn't be him...

"Oh God," Strange sank back into his chair, "not him, Morse. We can't… not again. Not him."

"That bastard," Morse said, through gritted teeth.

"Sir," Lewis cut it, "I'd like… with your permission, that is… Val, and the kids…?"

"I'd like nothing more than to send you home, Lewis," Strange replied, grimly, "in fact, if I had my way, I'd lock all of you who were involved with his arrest in maximum security cells until we catch the bastard… but nobody knows him better than you and Morse. By all means call your wife – we'll put a car outside each of your houses."

"What about Dr. Robson?" Morse asked.

At his trial, Jeremy Jackson had threatened, very publicly, that he would kill all of the people involved in his capture; Morse, Lewis, and the pathologist, Dr Robson, whom he had wanted to make one of his victims.

"We'll get a message to the hospital where she's teaching," Strange promised, as Lewis excused himself to make his telephone call and to organise a watch over his house, "You've no other active cases at the moment, Morse, do you hear? None. Find this bastard, and find him quickly, before he kills again!"

* * *

Morse and Lewis had gone straight over to the prison as soon as Lewis had spoken to his wife, telling her not to let the kids out of her sight and promising that an unmarked car would soon be outside the house to keep an eye on things.

"Prison changed Jackson a great deal… and not necessarily for the better, I'm afraid, gentlemen. Well, with all of the recent cuts in funding for out rehabilitation programmes, what do you expect?"

The speaker was the prison governor, Martins. He was a stocky man with a military bearing, short, white hair, a clipped moustache and a flaccid, ruddy complexion that spoke more of a fondness for strong spirits than outdoor pursuits.

"I expect you to be able to keep murdering psychopaths under lock an key," Morse growled, and then sighed, brining himself back to the subject, "You said prison changed him. Changed him in what way, Mr Martins?"

"_Captain_ Martins," the man corrected him, sternly, "Well, for one thing, the prison psychiatrist commented that Jackson's behaviour became gradually more erratic; normally we would expect to see some improvement in behaviour, but Jackson seemed to be regressing. He bit off an inmate's ear during a canteen fight… he was kept in seclusion most of the time he was here, either for his own safety or the safety of others."

"We're going to need to talk to his psychiatrist," Morse said, bluntly, "in the meantime, how did he escape, _Mister_ Martins?"

Martins bristled, but melted under Morse's glare.

"Well, like I said, he spent most of his time in solitary confinement," Martins replied, "there was only one guard on duty. Just after the guard's shift change, Jackson faked an emergency – he appeared to collapse in his cell. He was taking advantage…"

"Taking advantage of what?" Morse demanded, when Martins trailed off.

"Of a rookie guard," Martins said, studiously not looking at him, "he was a new man – he was on the solitary rotation to ease him in gently. When he went into the cell, Jackson jumped him and stole his keys, uniform and security pass. It was just after the shift change – we think he walked out with all of the other guards, and then hid until nightfall…"

"Until nightfall?" Morse interrupted, angrily, "how long was he gone before you reported it?"

"It was about four hours before we realised he was missing," Martins admitted, quietly, "we found the guard tied up and gagged in the cell – we got the search parties and the dogs out, but he was long gone… it took two hours to search the prison and grounds. After that, we were forced to report it."

Morse tried to keep his anger in check; "Six hours to report a dangerous serial murderer had escaped? You bloody _fool!_ Get his therapist up here, now. And in the meantime, know this; if Jackson kills someone, God forbid, then I'll be holding you to account, _Mister _Martins."

Martins gave the Chief Inspector a sullen glare, but he was reaching for the phone even as Morse was speaking.

"Hello – Dr Jefferson? Could you come up to my office, please? Immediately, thank you…"

* * *

Morse had not known what to expect from the psychiatrist, but Dr Jefferson was not it. He was a tall, muscular man with dark hair, brown eyes and a ready smile. When he shook hand with Morse and Lewis, his grip was firm, and he greeted them cordially. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a cream sweater, and he carried a stack of files under one arm.

"I'm Dr Jefferson," he said, after Morse had introduced himself and Lewis, "I'm the resident psychiatrist. I've been counselling Jeremy since he arrived here seven years ago… I understand that you were the arresting officer, both times he was caught?"

"That's correct," Morse nodded, as they stood in Captain Martins' office, "And now I need to catch him again, quickly, before he kills someone else…"

"That's a definite risk," agreed the psychiatrist, "these files detail the history of my meetings with Jeremy – all one-to-one. I'm afraid he didn't cope well with group sessions… here."

He handed over the files, and Lewis accepted them quickly, glancing down; "There doesn't seem to be much here for seven years' worth of work, doctor…"

Jefferson gave him a tight smile; "Yes, you're right. Jeremy would spend a lot of our sessions simply refusing to talk. He has an extreme disassociative personality disorder… in layman's terms, he completely disengages himself from reality and escapes into a fantasy world inside his head. The history is in the file, but he was raised by an aunt, who sexually abused him. As he got older, he fantasised about killing her. He carried out these fantasies on animals... While the abuse by his aunt was taking place, he would mentally detach himself from what was going on, instead going into a world in his head where he was the dominant one – a classic escape strategy when reality becomes too painful to bear. He described to me in great detail his fantasy of killing the woman he hated. It was this fantasy that he enacted on each of his victims, over and over. Unfortunately, his encounters with the police have embittered him to your profession, Inspector; he hates you all, but he told me, on occasion, just how much he wanted you - and your Sergeant - dead."

Jefferson softened his last word with an apologetic grimace.

"You said that it was a 'definite risk' that he would kill again," Morse noted, ignoring the last comment, holding a hand up for emphasis, "tell me, doctor – exactly how likely is it?"

"Jeremy would tell me that often his fantasises sustained him," Jefferson replied, after a long moment's thought, "at first, he was fine with animals, and then he progressed to those poor young women. He killed once per year to satisfy the urge – he said one a year was enough, as he could replay the moment over and over in his mind. He is exceptionally clever, in a rather base kind of way, and I believe that he has a photographic memory for faces and events – he can literally re-live things inside his mind; not just remember them, but actually re-experience them, in a way. He wanted to kill one woman per year for the rest of his life – and with seven years in jail, he has a lot of catching up to do."

"So do we," Morse muttered, eyeing the files that Lewis held, "do you have a recent photograph of Jackson?"

"Prison records are updated once per year," Martins cut in, handing up an A4 sized glossy colour print, "this was taken six months ago."

Morse took the photo and stared at it. Prison had not been kind to Jackson; his once youthful features had aged prematurely, and his blonde hair was long, lank and greasy in the picture. However, the cold blue eyed stared back with the same malevolent hatred that Morse recalled, and his face was still heavily scarred from the car accident that had brought an end to his previous killing spree. Morse suppressed an involuntary shudder at the memory, and showed the photo to Lewis.

The Sergeant grimaced, swallowed hard, and commented; "Aye, I wouldn't forget that face in a hurry…"

Taking the print, Lewis slipped it inside one of the folders that he held, as Morse turned on Jefferson and Martins.

"Is there anything else that either of you can tell me which might help us to catch him?" he demanded.

The two men exchanged a glance.

"I doubt it will help you to catch him, Chief Inspector," Jefferson said, at last, "but you should know… Jackson's disorder is extremely destructive. Prison has only made him worse, and he hasn't responded at all to any of the usual treatments. He will have no regard for his own safety, and that will make him doubly dangerous. I believe that he would rather die than have to come back here… and if that were the case, he might try to take other people along with him."

"Wonderful," Morse growled, "thank you. We'll be in touch."

"Good luck, Chief Inspector!" Martins called, as Morse turned to leave.

Morse paused to direct a glare over his shoulder; "Thanks to you, we're going to need it!"

* * *

In the darkness of night, in an un-named lay-by on the outskirts of Oxford, Jeremy Andrew Jackson was crouched in the undergrowth. The rain was still falling, a cold, sleeting precipitation that had long since soaked him to the skin, but he could not feel it. His mind was aflame and his thoughts of revenge powered him in a way that no other stimulant could have done. In his hand, he clutched a sharp hunting knife; the first thing he had done once he had achieved a safe distance from the prison had been to steal a lift in the back of an unsuspecting pick-up truck, which took him much closer to Oxford. The second thing he had done was to break into a few houses and garages, where he had found food, clothes, supplies, and, most importantly, the knife.

He stroked the blade with one finger, and then ran the same finger down the scar on his face. His looks had decayed all too quickly, making it impossible to attract the whores the way he had done previously. Around his neck, on a chain, hung a gold ring, set with diamonds and sapphires, a trinket from the last one… he had kept this one for far too long; it was time to find another.

With the change in his appearance, he could no longer find the bitches the way he used to, in clubs, oozing charm and stolen cash, but there were other ways. He waited, patiently. The weather did not help, but he knew this lay-by well. Eventually, he was rewarded when a large Mercedes pulled in. The driver was a corpulent corporate type, and his passenger… well, she would do just fine...

Jackson watched as cash exchanged hands and seats were reclined. His hand tightened around the knife handle. Beside him, on the ground, were a handful of cable-ties and a roll of black dustbin liners, provided by a kitchen and a garage he had broken into with ease.

He had everything he needed.

He made his move.

* * *

The dark lay-by was lit with red and blue police lights in the dead of night, surrounded by police tape and cordoned off from the road. A large screen had been erected, shielding the Mercedes from the view of passing traffic. Morse's Jaguar pulled up slowly, parking on the grass verge behind the silver car. He could see Lewis's car already parked on the opposite side of the road.

Climbing out of the car, huddling against the freezing temperature, he was relieved that at least the rain had stopped. It was a small comfort, as Lewis approached him, a grim expression on his face.

"It's him, isn't it?" Morse asked, bitterly, "It's bloody Jackson, isn't it?"

"Aye, sir," Lewis inclined his head, "there's one body in the car, sir – a businessman, one Carl Lombard… the other body was found in the long grass over yonder…"

Lewis gestured to a coroner's white tent, erected a little way back from the road, within the tree line. Morse took a deep, steadying breath.

"Let's see the car first."

Lewis led him around the side of the Mercedes. Dr Hobson, their new pathologist, was crouched beside the door, and stood up when she saw them approach.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she greeted them, "one Caucasian male, died about two or three hours ago. His throat was slit from behind…"

She stepped out of the way, and Morse glanced away quickly at the sight of copious amounts of blood decorating the interior and windscreen of the car. Hobson stepped forward again, blocking the view slightly.

"My guess is that the killer climbed into the back seat and simply slit his throat," Hobson gestured to the open back door, where a Scene of Crimes Officer was shining a torch meticulously over the back of the car, "the girl, unfortunately, wasn't quite so lucky…"

She gestured for them to follow her, as she strode through the long grass by the verge.

"Who called it in?" Morse asked, as they walked.

"A passing driver," Lewis reported, "he didn't stop, but he saw the car parked with no lights on – thought it had been nicked and dumped. Uniform sent a car around, and found the bodies… there have been a number of break-ins in the area as well, sir. Food, clothes, and household items stolen, mainly… one gentleman reported the theft of a hunting knife."

"So the bastard's armed already," Morse growled, as they approached the tent, "wonderful…"

Lewis held open the flap of the tent, allowing Hobson and Morse to step inside. Morse groaned audibly and averted his gaze. On the ground, a young woman's body lay inside several bin liners, which had been sliced open. Her wrists had been bound with cable ties, and there was altogether too much blood. Morse quickly stepped outside the tent, taking in a sharp lungful of the cold night air.

"Sorry," Hobson apologised, following him out of the tent, "I forgot… I should have warned you."

"Just tell me, doctor – is it definitely his work?"

"I am not familiar with the work of Jeremy Jackson," Hobson replied, "not personally, I mean. But I have seen the files Dr Russell left behind, and this killing bears all of the hallmarks. There's a mark on her neck where a necklace has been pulled from her neck with some force, numerous stab wounds, and the number nine has been carved into her back."

"It bloody is him," Morse sighed, balling his hands into fists inside his coat pockets and raising his eyes towards the skies, "Anything else that you can tell me, doctor?"

"Not until after the autopsy… but we did find this in her mouth…" Hobson held out an evidence bag towards him.

Morse took it and held it up, as Lewis obligingly shone his torch on it. Inside, there was a gold ring, set with a dark sapphire and surrounded by diamonds. Lewis nodded.

"That looks like the engagement ring Jackson took from his last victim," he said, taking the bag, glancing across at Hobson; "it's his little trademark… he must have stashed it somewhere before he was arrested… or he was allowed to keep it with him in prison…"

"Idiots," Morse breathed, turning his back on the scene, "time of death two or three hours ago… he could be anywhere by now."

"We've called in as many people as we can and the dog squad are combing the area," Lewis told him, but there was no confidence in his tone when he added; "if he's nearby, we'll find him."

"Yes, but he won't be nearby, will he, Lewis?" Morse retorted, "He'll have fled to somewhere else, where he'll lie low until he's ready to kill again. And let's not forget who are top of his hit list!"

"Aye sir. It's hard not to…"

* * *

_**A/N:** Apologies if you get the alert for this twice - my thanks to WhyAye for pointing out the bloody obvious typo in the former pathologist's name... I have no idea how I made that mistake, but thank you for drawing it to my attention!_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** Bonus chapter added today to apologise for the error in the previous chapter... sorry about that!_

* * *

They waited at the scene all night while the operation unfolded. A hearse came and the bodies were removed. A pick-up arrived and quickly took away the Mercedes, and the tents were gradually taken down, and the barriers removed. Response cars disappeared as they were called to attend other incidents, and CID officers came to take over during the day, carrying out a fingertip search of the area. One of the sergeants, a young woman in a black leather trench-coat, approached Morse and Lewis as dawn broke.

"Good morning, sir," she greeted Morse, holding out a plastic cup, "Coffee?"

He accepted the cup, and she poured him a drink from the flask she was carrying. She provided Lewis with a cupful as well, and then screwed the lid back on.

"I know you, don't I?" Morse glanced at her, questioningly.

"Sergeant Hogan," she supplied, "yes sir, you do. I was involved on the Jackson manhunt last time around. I've since been on secondment to Manchester Vice Squad, but I was recalled when news of the escape was published. I've been assigned to your protection duty."

"Who is your commanding officer? I'd like to speak to him - I don't want any interference with my investigtion..."

Hogan coughed, politely; "I'm in charge, sir. I have a team of seven constables, who have already been given their assignments. I spent most of the night setting up the rota schedules, and I've already been to both of your houses to assess your security. Chief Inspector, your kitchen window was open...!"

"You… you're in charge of our protection?" Morse eyed her critically, "But you're…"

"Perfectly capable of kicking your ass if you say what I think you're about to say," Hogan replied, and then quickly added; "Sir."

Lewis hid a smirk behind his coffee cup at Morse's shocked expression. Hogan gave him a sly wink, and then turned back to Morse.

"I've been assigned to manage the 24-hour protection afforded to yourself, Sergeant Lewis and his family," she explained, "I've assigned myself to you, Chief Inspector, and as I said I've got a team of seven constables who will take shift rotations – you're going to find that you're quite closely shadowed, but don't worry, we won't get in your way. After a while, you won't notice us."

"In that coat, I could hardly miss you," Morse grimaced, "Look, Jeremy Jackson is a vicious psychopath and he will kill without compunction or hesitation. No offence, my dear, but I fail to see how you would be able to stand up to him."

Hogan stared at him for a long moment, hands on hips, and then flung back her head with a bark of a laugh.

"Let's hope I get the opportunity to show you then, sir," she replied, confidently, "I'm not just here to supply coffee, you know…"

Morse sipped at the hot drink, shivering in the cold light of dawn as he eyed the female Sergeant dubiously. If this was the best Strange could do, then Morse had a feeling that he was a condemned man.

* * *

Back at the station, Lewis took a moment to escape Morse's bad temper by taking a trip to the vending machine. When he got there, he found Sergeant Hogan in deep conversation with another man. Neither of them wore suits – Hogan favoured black; black jeans, black combat boots, a black roll-neck sweater, and the ever-present black leather coat which reached almost to the floor. The other man wore blue jeans and a grey shirt. He had short cropped brown hair, green eyes, and a scar on his chin that leant him a slightly menacing look.

"Ah, Lewis!" Hogan exclaimed, "This is Constable Danny "Tank" Silverson, effectively my right-hand man…"

"Sir," Silverson nodded to him, quickly, straightening up.

Lewis found himself craning his neck to look up at the man; he must have been six-foot-seven if he was an inch, and ridiculously broad shouldered. Hogan patted his chest affectionately.

"I think he's more what Chief Inspector Morse had in mind," she commented, with a wry smile, "but he's a big kitten really, aren't you, Tank?"

Tank's response was to fold his arms and glare down at them both. Lewis shook his head slowly, marvelling at the size of the man.

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'brick shithouse'?" he commented.

Tank's face split into a sudden grin as he gave a rumble of a laugh; "I'm faster than I look... sir."

"Aw, bless our Tank... he's quite tasty in a tight spot," Hogan smiled, as Lewis ordered tea from the vending machine, "is that for Morse? Make sure you put plenty of sugar in it – the old bugger needs sweetening up a bit."

"Oh, he's alright really," Lewis said, amiably, "he's just… worked up, about the Jackson case. We all are…"

"Aye. I remember…" Hogan shook her head, "he's one brutal son of a bitch. I'd almost like him to try something – let's see how he copes with this on his tail."

She jerked her thumb towards Tank, and smiled. Lewis offered her a smile and a cup of tea, which she accepted.

"Come on," he told her, "the Chief Inspector will be giving a briefing shortly – you and Tank might find it interesting…"

* * *

Jackson had been travelling all night. Cold, wet, and tired to the bone, he finally stumbled across some farm buildings. He broke into one of the outhouses, a hay barn. Climbing the stack of bales, he moved a few to disguise his hiding place, and then nestled down in the hay. From his stolen backpack, he pulled out a dry change of clothes and a tin of beans. Changing, he hid the bloodstained, rain-wet clothes under one of the hay bales – it would be months before they were discovered, and by then it would be all over.

After eating the beans cold, straight from the can, Jackson stashed the empty can with the abandoned clothes, curled up in the hay, knife in hand, and let his eyes glaze over as he let go of reality, waiting for night to fall once more.

The night belonged to him.

He would hunt.

* * *

Morse was sitting in his office, taking what he considered to be a well-earned break. He craved a pint, but he dared not leave the station. He was keyed up, and rightly so; until Jeremy Jackson was back in jail, he was going to be hounded by his superiors, the press, the public, and the nightmares of his previous dealings with the sadistic killer. He glanced up in surprise when he heard Lewis utter a very uncharacteristic oath.

"Lewis?" there was no reproach in Morse's tone, only surprise.

The Sergeant glanced up quickly, apologetic; "Sorry, sir… Jackson's psychiatric reports. They're pretty… um… graphic, sir."

"Is there anything in there that might tell us where he's going?"

"None," Lewis shook his head in frustration, "he never seems to talk about the future at all – no indication at all that he ever foresaw leaving prison, no plans for his release, nothing like that."

"He should have died in jail," Morse grumbled, "what about this aunt who abused him?"

"Dead, sir. Died years ago, from cancer. According to the records, Jackson's parents died when he was only a baby – she raised him. He had no siblings and no father figure, which the psychiatrist makes quite a big deal out of…" Lewis flicked back through the files, with a shrug, "notes from the doctor recommending that he be transferred to a maximum security psychiatric hospital, but no action was ever taken…"

"Bloody typical," muttered Morse, "they knew what he was capable of, and they just let him walk right out of there…!"

There was a knock on the door, but before Morse could call out, Hogan entered the room, and dropped a file in front of Morse.

"Reports from last night, sir," she told him; "we've got out an appeal for witnesses, but so far nothing's come in. We've had the usual number of crack-pot calls reporting sightings of Jackson all over the city – a few of the lads are checking the more realistic ones out, but we've nothing yet."

Suddenly, the phone rang on Lewis's desk, and he snatched it up quickly; "Hallo? Yes, right – thank you, doctor."

Placing his hand over the mouthpiece, he glanced up at them; "Dr Hobson has finished the autopsy – she wants to know if we'd like to join her?"

"Tell her we'll come straight over," Morse told him, standing up and reaching for his jacket, "I suppose you'll be coming along?"

"Aye, sir," Hogan grinned at him, "that's my job."

Morse sighed and rolled his eyes, as Lewis hung up the phone. The three of them left the station together, and piled into Morse's Jaguar. He started the engine, and took the familiar route to the hospital.

* * *

The journey passed in virtual silence, and when they arrived in the pathology lab the three of them were warmly greeted by Dr Hobson.

"This way," she gestured to them, "I put a rush on the autopsy for you – the toxicology results haven't come back yet, but there are a few things I can tell you…"

She led them into the autopsy room, and Morse swallowed his revulsion at the sight of the body on the slab, covered by a sheet. Hobson pulled back the sheet, revealing the victim's face. Morse spared her a quick glance, and then looked across at Hobson.

"She was naked when we found her," Hobson explained, "her clothes were dumped near the body – I've sent them to forensics. Do you know who she is yet?"

"No," Morse shook his head, "but we think she's a prostitute."

"That would concur with my findings," nodded Hobson, "she had sex shortly before she died, but there were also signs of post-mortem rape. I've collected semen samples and sent them to the labs. She was strangled, raped posthumously, and then mutilated – nineteen separate stab wounds, and the number nine was carved into her back."

"Jackson's never left forensic trace before," Morse frowned, "this is sloppy, by his standards…"

"Well, he doesn't need to try to hide who he is any more, does he?" Hobson remarked, raising one eyebrow, "you know who he is and you're already after him. He probably did this in a rush…"

In deference to Morse's obvious discomfort, Hobson went to draw the sheet back over the victim.

"Just a second," Hogan held out her hand, peering at the victim's face, "she's not very pretty, is she?"

"Neither would you be if you'd been dead for several hours," Hobson responded, dryly.

"That's not what I mean," Hogan shook her head, "I was involved in the last hunt for him; I remember studying the files. All of his victims were beautiful, and young – this victim's in her late thirties, easily, and she's not… well, like I said – she's not ugly, but she's not exactly stunning, is she?"

"You've got a point," Hobson allowed, grudgingly, "I've reviewed the old autopsy notes – Dr Russell kept good records. She remarked that the killer seemed to be targeting young, beautiful, blonde women. This lady is early middle-aged, fairly plain, and a brunette."

"He's no longer being choosy," Morse nodded, slowly, "he's targeted the first convenient woman who was unfortunate to come his way…"

"And the man in the car," Hobson agreed, "it seems like he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time – he was in Jackson's way, so Jackson simply killed him, He's never done that before, from what I understand."

"His psychiatrist said in his reports that any semblance of self-control had been stripped away by sensory deprivation and solitary confinement in prison," Lewis spoke up, "is he just going to kill everyone he comes across until we catch him?"

"Scary thought," Hogan mused.

"His modus operandi has definitely changed," Hobson nodded, "the work is his, but it's crude and sloppy compared to the earlier articles."

"You make him sound like some kind of artist, doctor!"

"Oh, don't get me wrong, Morse – this sickens me almost as much as it does you," Hobson told him, "but you need to know this; he's lowered his standards. He'll kill anyone now, and he's going to keep doing it until someone stops him."

"A cheering thought," Morse responded, sourly, "Right, come on Lewis – I need to think, and I haven't any money with me…"

They left Hobson in the lab as Morse lead the way out of the lab. Hogan snagged Lewis's arm as they walked, and leaned in to whisper; "Why does he need money to think?"

Lewis sighed; "Because it'll be my round… come on; if you're lucky, he'll make me buy you one, too…"

* * *

In the hay loft, Jackson lay, wide awake, his eyes glazed over as he lived his revenge over once more. His hands, around the throats of the men and the woman - for there was only one woman in the world - who had done this to him.

He was the hunter. They thought he was their pray, and he was happy to let them think that.

For he would lead them on a very merry chase, and in the end, when they thought they had him...

Like a wounded animal, he would turn on them.

And Morse would pay. Jackson would make them, each of them, beg like animals.

Beg for forgiveness.

Beg for death...

* * *

Morse chose the pub, Lewis brought the drinks, and Hogan picked the table – near the wall, away from the windows, and with a clear view of the entrance. She sat so that she could see the door, watching everyone who came in with surreptitious scrutiny. Lewis placed three pints on the table – he wouldn't normally indulge, but he had a feeling he was going to need this one.

Leaning back in his chair, Morse downed almost half of his pint in three deep swallows, and then set it down, scowling at the table. Hogan opened her mouth to speak, but Lewis caught her eye and shook his head quickly. With a slight twist of a smile, she picked up her own pint, toasted him with it silently, and drank.

They sat in silence for a good long while, before Morse sighed.

"Where would you go, Lewis?" he said, distantly, gazing at the ceiling, "If you were Jackson, where would you go?"

"Well…" Lewis considered this for a long moment, "I… well… I suppose I'd go to ground. His picture is all over the local newspapers; nobody would put him up, and with no money anyway, he can't do his usual trick of hiring a boat or a caravan…"

"So he'll be living rough," Hogan nodded, "begging, borrowing and stealing…"

"And killing," Morse said, darkly, downing the rest of his pint and setting the empty glass down, very significantly, in front of Lewis.

Lewis sighed and reached for it, but was surprised when the glass was lifted out of his grasp.

"My round," Hogan said, firmly, "what are you having?"

"Same again, Lewis," Morse said, deep in thought and obviously not listening.

"I'll just stick with this one, thanks," Lewis said; tapping the half-finished pint in front of him as the two Sergeants shared an amused look, "Looks like I'm driving…"

With another pint soon in his hand, Morse considered his options. If Jackson was living rough, he could be anywhere – it was going to be more by luck than skill that they would catch him. Both times they had caught him previously had been because Jackson had come to them, trying to abduct and murder them, Morse did not think he would make the mistake a third time. He also knew, however, that Jackson only motive was revenge; against a dead aunt who had abused him and against the people who had put him in jail, twice.

Hating the immense feeling of helplessness, unable to predict what their killer's next move might be, Morse drank his pint, savouring the bitter taste and the warmth of the beer.

"Right," he said, clapping his hands down on the table and getting to his feet, "Back to the station. Let's see if forensics have turned anything up…"

Lewis and Hogan quickly downed their drinks, and they left the pub together. Hogan insisted on leading the way and checking Morse's car, before Lewis slipped into the driver's seat. Hogan sat in the back, and Morse glanced back at her.

"Are you armed, at all?" he asked her, curiously.

"Of course," Hogan nodded, "in more ways than one."

Morse grumbled something, and settled back in the passenger seat. He resented the need for bodyguards – clearly, Lewis appreciated having people watching over his family, and it would have been the first thing that Morse would have ordered for his Sergeant's wife and children, but it rankled him to have his steps trailed by a girl who didn't look old enough to…

A flash caught his eye, and he turned slightly. Hogan was holding a wickedly-sharp hunting knife with a three-inch blade and a leather-wrapped handle. Morse raised his eyebrows, as she slid it back into a sheath, strapped around her lower right leg, hidden beneath her jeans. She then pulled a gun from a pocket within the depths of her coat, removed the clip, showed him the bullets, snapped it back together again and holstered it quickly.

"Just so you know," she said, airily, "don't worry, Chief Inspector – my job is to keep you two alive, and I take it quite seriously."

"Yes, my dear, I'm sure you do."

Morse turned around as he spoke, and therefore did not see the look of disgust on Hogan's face at the endearment. Lewis did, via the rear-view mirror, and gave her a sympathetic smile. She shook her head, sighed, and the rest of the journey passed by in silence.

* * *

As the afternoon wore on, it got darker and colder. Jeremy Jackson opened his eyes, and breathed in deeply, before he raised himself cautiously, knife in hand. There was no movement from within the hay barn, and no sounds from outside. He waited until it was fully dark, and then slowly climbed down from the hay bales he had rested in. Gripping the knife tightly in his right hand, Jackson kept low to the ground, and slipped away like a ghost. He approached the farm house, and found the back door unlocked. He drew the knife, and slipped inside.

His work took only two hours, and he was satisfied with it. He changed his clothes again, stealing a new set from the wardrobes of the bedroom, and then set fire to the old ones in the middle of the living room floor. He left the house, eating a chicken-leg stolen from the kitchen, a slight smile on his lips and a glassy look in his eyes. After only a couple of hours of walking, he found a road. Another hour, and he finally reached the canal.

At last…

Climbing over a fence, he landed lightly on the tow-path. Choosing a direction that would take him closer to the centre of Oxford, he began to walk. However, as daylight approached, he was forced to hide. He found a series of locks and, crossing one of the gates, he climbed over the fence on the opposite bank, finding himself in a small copse of trees. One particular ancient, half-dead specimen had a mostly-hollow trunk. Climbing inside, Jackson curled up, hugged the knife to himself, and let his eyes glaze over.


	3. Chapter 3

Morse stood in the burned-out wreckage of the front room of the farmhouse cottage. The fire had only affected the one room; it had obviously not been intended to destroy any evidence. Morse had already seen the five bodies lying upstairs in their beds. The husband and two sons with their throats cut, and the women…

"Of the two women, the mother died first," Hobson's voice sliced through his reverie, as sharp as one of her surgical scalpels, "I found a broken necklace stuffed in the her mouth, and the mother's wedding ring in the daughter's mouth. The fact that the mother was numbered ten and the daughter eleven were also a big clue. The men died first, and the women were restrained..."

Morse glanced across at her. Hobson glared at him, and then looked away.

"Sorry," she apologised, "it's not your fault he hasn't been caught…"

"He should never have been allowed to escape in the first place," Morse growled.

Hobson nodded, slowly, glancing away as she said; "I'll get you the autopsy reports as soon as I can, but it's going to take some time to process five bodies..."

Morse nodded, glancing around the scorched room. He had barely slept or eaten since the news of Jackson's escape; he had yet to lay eyes on the man, but he felt like his every step was being haunted by the blue-eyed, cold-hearted killer... and yet Morse felt like he was on the back foot, always a few steps behind, locked in a twisted circular dance around his nemesis. He turned towards the door, deep in thought, trying to place himself in Jackson's shoes, to work out where he would go...

"Sir," Lewis appeared at the door frame, cutting through his thoughts, "We found blood-stained clothing in the barn, but there's no indication of where Jackson went from here. It looks like he walked, but we can't tell for sure if any cars or anything are missing. The farm-hand who called it in is checking for us now."

Irritated by the interruption, Morse sighed, glancing first at Lewis and then at Hobson; "How long ago was he here?"

"The daughter died about six hours ago," Hobson replied, "I doubt he had any reason to hang around after that."

Morse nodded slowly in acknowledgement, and cast his eyes once more around the charred room.

"Is Sergeant Hogan here?" he asked, slowly.

"No, sir. She was on duty most of the night; DC Spencer and DC Williams are patrolling the grounds outside."

"Have them spread out and search the area – we're going to need a fingertip search of the grounds. We need a clue – any clue – as to the direction he might have taken."

"Aye, sir," Lewis ducked out of the room.

Morse watched him go and exchanged a tired look with Hobson. They both knew that, whatever the results of the search, Jackson was long gone… and still hunting.

* * *

Night fell once more, and Jackson waited until the dead of the darkness to claw his way free of the dead tree in which he had secreted himself. He ignored the biting hunger in his stomach in favour of the burning rage still in the back of his mind.

Scrambling back over the fence and across the lock-gate, nimble even in the pitch darkness, Jackson continued up the slope of the tow-path, passed the locks, and on into the night. It was low season, so there were no boats within sight. However, Jackson knew there would be a few residential boats on the stretch, or perhaps the odd anti-social type escaping the season's recently-passed festivities.

He walked for three hours before he saw what he was looking for.

It was moored up by the side of the canal.

It was perfect.

Home. It was exactly where they would know to look for him, the blind fools...

He drew the knife…

* * *

Morse had spent most of the day at the farmhouse, and it was with some relief that he came home that night, but it was to a sleepless night on the settee rather than the comfort of his bed. However, the call that he had been dreading still came in all too early in the morning. Morse emerged from his house to find a familiar, tall figure outside his front door. The black trench-coat was unmistakeable.

"Sergeant," he greeted her, gruffly.

"Morning, sir," she said, inclining her head, politely, "where are we going?"

"I've been called to a scene," he told her, "I take it you'll be accompanying me?"

"Orders are orders, sir."

She shivered, pulling her coat tighter around herself, as her breath misted in the air. Morse glanced across at her; "Have you been out here all night?"

"No, sir. DC Spencer did from nine until three. I took over from him then. Nothing to report from overnight, sir, except that you've got a fox living somewhere in the back garden…"

Morse grunted in acknowledgement, opened the car, and climbed in. Hogan got into the passenger seat, and Morse carefully guided the car out of the driveway, onto the still-dark roads. It was just gone half-past-six in the morning, and, as Morse drove, it began to snow. He made a sound of disgust, flicking on the headlights and the windscreen wipers.

Eventually, the car bounced down a dirt track, and came to a gate.

"This is near as we can get to the map reference you gave me," Hogan said, stuffing the roadmap back into the glove box, "it's a two mile trek down the tow-path from here, sir…"

"Two miles?" Morse exclaimed.

"Yeah. You got an umbrella?"

* * *

Lewis wondered if it was possible to be any more miserable than he was now. He was kneeling on a wet, muddy towpath, waiting for, well, anyone else to arrive. The snow had stopped, but the dark sky and the cold wind threatened worse to come. There were two uniformed response officers watching the towpath in either direction, keeping a healthy distance. A very hardy, early morning jogger was with two of their colleagues, two miles away, sitting in the back of a patrol car, being interviewed about his grisly early-morning find. The pathology and forensics teams were on their way, hampered by the rural terrain and lousy weather, and there was no sign of Morse. DC "Tank" Silverson was standing nearby, smoking a cigarette and looking extremely bored.

The two bodies on the towpath were a tragic sight; a middle-aged man and woman. Lewis had a fairly hardened stomach, but even he had been forced to look away for a good long while on his first sight of them. The man had clearly had his throat slit, but the woman… well, Lewis did not need Dr Hobson's pathology expertise to tell him whose work this was. One of the constables had brought with them emergency blankets from the patrol cars, and they had used these to cover up the corpses.

"What do you make of it, then?" Tank yawned; flicking his cigarette butt carelessly into the canal, and shoving his hands into his pocket.

Lewis idly wondered if a lack of respect for authority was mandatory on the team Hogan had assembled for guard duty.

"They weren't killed here," he commented, glancing down at the blanket-covered bodies, "not enough blood. And they didn't walk here, either – look, this bloke's still got his slippers on. They probably came from a boat…"

Lewis trailed off, and slowly stood up, glancing up and down the canal as realisation finally dawned.

"Oh, God – I'm so bloody slow!" he gasped, "Tank, mate – run back to the patrol car, and order the helicopter and back-up to get out here, Tell them they're looking for a canal boat, somewhere along this stretch – at four miles an hour, he can't have gone far – this is our best chance to find him, it'll be the only boat moving at this time of the morning."

"My orders are to stay with you."

"Just do it, man!" Lewis nearly shouted, turning on him, "get back to the car and get that chopper in the air!"

Tank hesitated, swore, turned, and ran back up the towpath. Lewis ran his hands through his hair, and prayed that he had not been too late...

Jackson was nearby. He knew it.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Morse arrived at the crime scene, Dr Hobson and the pathology team had finished negotiating the muddy, snow-covered fields and the slippery tow-path. Hobson straightened up from her examination of the two bodies, as he approached, looking thoroughly cold and irritated. Hogan stood behind him, holding a large golf umbrella, smiling slightly. Hobson returned the smile, which only seemed to sour Morse's mood further.

"My car is parked two miles back that way," he groused, pointing emphatically down the tow path.

"Lucky you – my car and the hearse are three miles that way," Hobson pointed out across the field, "You obviously had a better navigator – I've had to call in the air ambulance to collect these two."

"What have we got?" Morse growled, glancing down at the bodies.

"Man and woman, both late forties – his throat was slashed, and she was stabbed multiple times. I'll spare you the gory details; let's just say it was Jackson's work. I found a broken necklace stuffed in her mouth, and he's wearing a wedding ring, but hers is missing."

Morse frowned down at the bodies; "They must have been on a boat…"

"That was Sergeant Lewis's theory," Hobson nodded, absently, as knelt back down beside the bodies, "oh, and I'd estimate that the time of death was between ten and eleven last night – they've been dead for around nine to ten hours."

Morse nodded to show he had heard, and then glanced around. He could see Lewis, standing in the field next to the towpath, talking into his mobile phone. He was about to bellow at his Sergeant to call him into line, when Lewis suddenly turned, and ran back towards them over the field.

"The chopper's spotted a boat moored up near a set of locks about six miles down the towpath," he told them, quickly, "it's the only one in visual range on this stretch of the canal."

"You mean Jackson could be on board?" Hogan raised her eyebrows.

"He favours canal boats," Morse replied, thoughtfully, "and he couldn't have risked going far in the dark, let alone trying to negotiate a lock… and even if he isn't there, it could be our crime scene…"

"It's this way, sir," Lewis said, taking a few steps down the towpath.

"Six miles, Lewis!" Morse protested.

"Wait – where the hell is Tank?" Hogan demanded.

"I sent him back to his car to co-ordinate the helicopter… look, shouldn't we get going?"

Hogan opened her mouth to reply, and then closed it again, frowning, and tilting her head to one side. Then, a smile broke across her face, as she said; "No need. Here he comes…"

Morse gave her a questioning look, and then he heard it too – the roar of a powerful engine. He turned, in time to see a large four-by-four bouncing over the field at speed. Hogan ran forward, leaping the fence to greet the oncoming monster of a vehicle.

"Nice one, Tank!" she shouted, as it came to a halt, and then, to Morse and Lewis; "Are you guys coming or not?"

"In that thing?" Morse said, incredulously.

Hogan folded her arms and raised an eyebrow; "You'd rather walk six miles…sir?"

"Point taken, my dear…"

* * *

Morse clung to the passenger-side front door for dear life as the Range Rover bounced over the uneven ground of the fields adjacent to the canal. Sheep and cattle scattered in front of the powerful vehicle as it careened headlong over ditches, stopping only to allow either Lewis or Hogan to leap clear and open a gate to allow access into the next jarring muddy hell-hole they apparently needed to pass through.

"There," Hogan pointed, "there's the lock. Look – there's a series of them, going down the hill…"

Tank pulled the car up by the overgrown fence and the four of them piled out of it, Morse the most gratefully of all. Hogan cleared the fence first and was already running towards the lock, closely followed by Tank. Lewis was a close third, and by the time Morse was half-way over the fence, the three junior officers were already well ahead of him.

"Stay back!" Hogan called, over her shoulder, "Tank – the boat, there, between the last two locks – the boat!"

The big constable nodded, reached the first lock, and scrambled across to the other side of the canal, so that he and Hogan could approach from opposite sides. Lewis hung back as Hogan and Tank both drew guns from inside their coats, approaching the boat slowly.

"Jackson!" Hogan shouted, her voice breaking the early-morning silence, "Jackson! You are surrounded by armed police officers! Come out and keep your hands above your head!"

Morse finally managed to climb awkwardly over the fence, joining Lewis on the tow-path.

"What are they doing?" Morse growled, and then raised his voice; "Hogan! He's not in the boat – he'll have been opening the lock!"

Hogan looked up; she had just crossed the lock to the opposite side of the canal, where the boat was moored. In that moment, she hesitated, as Tank turned away, looking at the lock behind him. It was then that Morse realised the error of his distraction of the two officers.

From behind the lock-gate post, a thin, wraith-like figure with a scarred face and long, greasy-blonde hair rose like a spectre from a grave. Hogan's momentary hesitation cost her as Jackson swung the windlass – the key to the lock – glancing a heavy blow across her temple. She yelped and went down, heavily, as Jackson lunged at her, grabbing the gun from her hands as she fell. Tank snarled a curse and whipped around, but he was too slow – Jackson ducked behind the boat, as Tank let loose two shots. Neither found their target, but Jackson leapt to his feet, and fired back twice. Both bullets took Tank in the chest; the big man gave only a grunt of surprise, and toppled backwards into the canal.

Morse was rooted to the spot by shock as Jackson turned on them, windlass in one hand, gun in the other. Jackson raised the gun towards him, from across the canal; Morse heard three shots. He felt a heavy impact, and the next thing he knew, he was falling.


	5. Chapter 5

Lewis saw Jackson raise the gun, and even as the first shot fired, he was moving. He crashed into Morse, tackling the older man and taking him to the ground as a second shot whizzed overhead, and a third smacked into a fence-post behind them. Lewis dared to raise his head, in time to see Jackson moving towards Hogan, who was still lying face-down on the opposite towpath.

How many bullets had there been in the gun? Eight? Jackson had already expended five shots… with three left, that could be a bullet for each of them, assuming that Hogan was still alive… Lewis winced as he recalled watching Tank topple backwards into the canal.

"Sir!" he hissed, shaking Morse's shoulder for emphasis, "Sir! Are you alright?"

"Lew-isss," Morse groaned, "For goodness' sake, get off me!"

Lewis quickly shifted to one side, allowing Morse to raise his head slightly; they had the advantage of being slightly hidden by the long grass and weeds between the footpath and the canal; Jackson obviously thought his shots had hit home. Morse gave a low moan, rubbing an emerging bruise on his cheek from where he had hit the ground.

"What do we do now, sir?" Lewis asked, a little despairingly, "I can't get a signal on me phone, not here…"

"And it seems that both of our bodyguards are out of commission," Morse growled, "we need to draw him out, Lewis… back-up should be on its way here; we need to play for time."

"Aye, sir – but he's still got three bullets in that gun, by my reckoning."

Morse nodded, to show that he had heard, and then reached out, parting the grass slightly to get a better view. Jackson was in the process of trying to drag the unconscious Hogan onto the boat; Morse realised, at that moment, that the sergeant was obviously still alive, if Jackson wanted to take her with him.

"Jackson!" he shouted, making Lewis jump, "You've failed, Jackson! I'm still alive!"

On the other side of the canal, Jackson dropped Hogan in surprise, snapping up the gun and glancing around wildly. Morse ducked, watching him through the reeds, as he called out again; "Over here, Jackson! Come and finish the job!"

Jackson raised the gun, wavering, his gaze sweeping the opposite bank for movement. A movement must have caught his eye, because he whipped around and fired, once. Morse flinched as the bullet ricocheted off the bank of the canal less than a foot from his face. Jackson stared around, and then flung back his head, laughing wildly.

"It's the end, Morse! The fucking end! Come out and finish it!"

Morse exchanged a look with Lewis; the sergeant was shaking his head, slowly, eyes wide. Looking back up, Morse wondered what, if anything, they could do… two bullets left. And then what? A mad dash at Jackson; hoping that between the two of them they could overpower him?

"Come on out, Morse! Come out or I'll kill this bitch, right here!"

"Sir! He's still got Hogan…"

"Damn," Morse growled.

Peering through the grass, he could see Jackson aiming the gun down at the ground, presumably at Hogan. Slowly, Morse raised himself to his knees, and then to his feet, hands held in front of him, ignoring Lewis's hiss of protest. Jackson turned to face him, and even across the distance between them, Morse could see the twisted sneer on the man's scarred face.

"Die now, you bastard!"

Jackson raised the gun, and Morse flung himself towards the ground as another shot sounded, but he was not quite fast enough. He hit the ground with a shocked gasp, as hot pain lanced through his arm.

"Sir!" he heard Lewis yelp, as Morse groaned, clamping his right hand over the wound.

He could feel his own blood, warm, beneath his cold hand, and that sensation, combined with pain, made him feel sick to his stomach. He felt, more than saw, Lewis scramble over to his side, as the sergeant pulled off his tie, applying it as a bandage to the wound. It was then that the first drops of rain fell, icy-sharp, soaking and freezing at the same time.

Jackson's laugh, however, still rang clear in the air.

"Morse! Are you dead, you old bastard? Are you?"

"Keep down, sir!" Lewis hissed at him.

Morse had no difficulties in obeying the order from his sergeant; his head was swimming with shock and blood-loss. Lewis gently patted his shoulder reassuringly, but then whispered something that alarmed Morse almost back to full wakefulness.

"One bullet left, eh? Let's see what you can do with it, you bastard…"

* * *

"Lewis! Don't!" Morse gasped, but it was too late.

Lewis launched himself to his feet and ran towards the bottom lock in a full-tilt sprint. Jackson screamed a curse at him, raised the gun, and fired.

"No!" Morse shouted, as he saw Lewis trip, stumble and fall.

Horror turned to relief when Morse saw Lewis scramble back to his feet, apparently unhurt – Jackson had missed, but only just... For a long moment, Jackson and Lewis stared at each other. Morse managed to get to his knees, hand still clamped to his wounded arm. Then, suddenly, Jackson swore, and flung the gun into the canal violently, drawing the hunting knife from inside his coat. He advanced, slowly, towards the lock. He went to the far end of the lock, and slowly began to cross.

At the nearer gate, Lewis was torn with indecision; should he cross the lock to assist the unconscious Hogan, or remain this side to protect Morse?

"Don't come any closer, Jackson!" he shouted, "Just… just don't move!"

Jackson paused, half-way across the lock-gate, and laughed at him in that wild, high-pitched cackle. The rain continued to fall, and Lewis wiped it from his eyes with a shaking hand and Jackson threw back his head and screamed his rage at the sky.

"I'm going to kill you, Lewis!" Jackson screamed, pointing the knife at him, as the rain streamed in rivulets down his scarred face and dripped from the brow above his sunken eyes, "You bastard! I'm going to kill you for what you've done to me!"

Jackson suddenly whipped around, as if distracted by a sound or movement behind him; Lewis grabbed the opportunity and lunged, reaching for the knife in an attempt to disarm him, but Jackson lashed out, catching Lewis with a back-handed blow across the face. Balancing on the narrow walk-way across the front of the lock-gate, Lewis reeled backwards, grabbing the hand-rail across the top of the lock arm to stop himself from falling into the canal below.

"Give up, Jackson!" he called, blinking rain water from his eyes, "you can't win, man!"

"I have won! I'm going to kill you!"

Jackson swiped at Lewis with the knife, forcing him to take a step backwards. Lewis risked a glance behind him; Morse was staggering to his feet, looking around wildly, searching for assistance, his right hand still clasping his wounded left arm. Lewis turned his attention back to Jackson, who was staring at him with hate in his wide eyes.

"You're going to die, you bastard!" he shrieked.

"Not if I get you first, you son of a bitch!"

Lewis whipped around at Hogan's furious yell; she was on her feet, swaying, eyes fixed on Jackson. He turned to look at her, as she raised her arm. Her aim was just shy of the mark she had been aiming for; it was only when Lewis saw the hilt buried in Jackson's shoulder that he realised she had thrown her knife.

With a pained yell, Jackson released his grip on his own knife – Lewis heard the distant splash as it landed in the water beyond the lock. Jackson teetered on the edge, reeling. Lewis reached out to grab his flailing hand, but Jackson slipped out of his grip. With a prolonged scream, the vicious killer fell into the turgid waters several feet below.

* * *

Hogan met Lewis half-way across the lock-gate; he was staring at the churning waters below, while she clung fiercely to the hand-rail across the top of the lock. Beneath them, in the frothy waters of the canal, a hand appeared and Jackson clawed his way to the surface, spitting and coughing. Hogan grabbed Lewis's arm as he began shrugging out of his suit jacket. He met her gaze – there was a deep wound, somewhere just above her left temple, and blood mixed with the rain water running down her face.

"What the hell are you doing?" she gasped, holding on to him with one hand and the rail with the other.

Lewis pointed to Jackson, struggling in the water; "We can't just let him die!"

"That bastard was going to kill you! He killed Tank!"

Lewis met her gaze, torment written on his face.

"Aye," he replied, sadly, "but I cannae just let him drown... Inspector Morse has been shot in the arm – will you help him?"

Hogan glanced down at the water, scowled, and then looked back at him and nodded. Taking a deep breath, Lewis handed her his jacket, nodded back, and then jumped.

* * *

Despite the ice-cold rain, the water was even colder. Lewis had to fight every reflex he had not to gasp when he hit the canal. Kicking hard, he managed to break the surface, but in the driving winter rain it was almost hard to tell. Reaching out, Lewis realised that he could not see Jackson anymore. He took a breath, and dived, reaching out blindly. With grasping hands, he eventually felt his fingers close around a solid object. Fighting his way back up to the surface, he managed to drag Jackson up with him; the other man was unconscious, whether through blood-loss or oxygen-deprivation Lewis could not tell.

With a one-armed stroke, Lewis swam to the edge of the canal. Clinging to Jackson, he managed to haul himself out with one arm, hooking his leg onto the canal-side and pulling himself out. With a strength born of desperation, he pulled Jackson free of the water, laying him out on the towpath. Three quick chest compressions and the savage killer coughed, spitting out water, groaning wordlessly. For good measure, Lewis dragged the semi-conscious man over to the fence, heedless of the knife still in his shoulder, and, taking handcuffs from the inside pocket of his now soaking-wet jacket, he cuffed Jackson to the fence by his good arm and then left him there.

Getting to his feet, Lewis staggered up the sharp slope of the footpath, but before he was half-way up, Hogan materialised at the top, her long coat billowing in the cold wind that drove the freezing rain at them like needles.

"Is he alive?" she shouted.

"Inspector Morse…?"

"He's fine. Is Jackson alive?"

"Yes."

"I should kill him, you know!"

"You won't."

"Do you think you could stop me?"

Lewis shook his head; "You won't kill him. You're better than that."

"He killed… he killed Tank," her voice broke slightly.

"I know," Lewis climbed to the top of the slope, "and he'll pay for that, in time…"

* * *

It took some time for the rest of the police force to catch up with them. Hogan removed her leather coat and sat on the floor next to Morse, using it to shelter the two of them from the rain as best she could. Morse was terribly pale, and blood still oozed from the wound in his upper left arm. Lewis and Hogan had dressed it roughly with the men's ties and handkerchiefs, but both were relieved when the air ambulance finally returned, and landed in the field next to the canal. It took some time to assist Morse over the fence, but he was soon safely in the hands of the paramedics.

"You should go with them," Lewis told Hogan, gesturing to the blood on her face.

She hesitated, glancing across at the canal; "I… I'd rather be here… for Tank…"

"I'll take care of it," Lewis assured her, "Go with them."

Hogan complied, as Lewis gestured to two paramedics bearing a stretcher. He led them down to where Jackson was slumped against a fence post, to which he was still handcuffed. Lewis had applied a rudimentary dressing around the knife blade, using his own jacket, in an attempt to stem the bleeding, but could do little else. The paramedics quickly took over, as Lewis unlocked the handcuffs and, for good measure, cuffed him to the stretcher.

"Careful with this one," he warned the medics, "keep him restrained."

"Yes sir," one of them nodded, and Lewis watched as the helicopter took off, coming overhead to air-lift the stretcher aboard.

He turned away, scrubbing a hand through his wet hair, shivering slightly. As he turned, he saw a familiar, white-suited figure approaching, carrying a bulky silver case in one hand and an umbrella in the other.

"Hello again, doctor," Lewis greeted her, as she set down the case, and flexed her fingers.

"Hello, Lewis," she replied, glancing behind her, "Sorry I'm late. I had to walk – all six miles. My car is now nine miles away…"

"Mine, too," Lewis realised, "and I've no idea where Inspector Morse's car is…"

"Where is Morse? I was told there was a body down here…"

Lewis quickly summarised what had happened, gesturing to the divers who were combing the bed of the canal between the two locks. DC "Tank" Silverson's body was soon drawn to the surface, and Hobson made only a cursory examination before arranging to have the remains removed, as the rain fell relentlessly.

Eventually, a large four-by-four came bouncing across the field, and DC Spencer, another of Hogan's team, stepped out.

"The Boss called and said to give you a lift home, Sarge," he grunted at Lewis, "She said Tank's dead – Jackson killed him. That true?"

"Yes," Lewis nodded, "I'm… I'm sorry."

Spencer just stared across the canal and then said, in a brittle voice; "So did you want that lift home, sir?"

"Just back to my car will do, thanks," Lewis replied, shivering and wiping rainwater from his face, "Dr Hobson – would you like a lift back to your car?"

"Oh, yes! Definitely," she nodded, hefting her case, "Lewis – I suggest we both go home and change before we catch our deaths..."

"Aye, I will..."

Hobson caught the look on his face, and smiled at him; "Morse will be fine. Once you've changed, go over to the hospital... I'll tell them to expect you, okay?"

"Okay," he returned her smile, "thanks, doctor."

* * *

True to his word, Lewis did indeed go home and change, sparing only a few minutes to confirm to Val that Jackson was safe in custody. She had wept with relief, but was horrified to hear of the injury to Morse. Lewis had reassured her that all would be well, and confirmed that the constables on guard would remain there until after Jackson's trial, just in case. He then went out to speak to the two guards, who were sitting in a car outside the front of the house. He broke the news of Tank's death to them as gently as he could, but he saw the same cold, hard anger in their eyes that he had seen in Hogan, and Spencer, and that he knew he felt himself. Jackson had killed a cop; the ramifications would be felt throughout the station.

Lewis then drove over to the hospital, and was surprised to find Hogan waiting for him in the main reception.

"I thought you'd be along soon," she commented, "I sent Williams – one of my boys – out to retrieve Inspector Morse's car. He loves old Jags; don't worry, he'll be careful with it. I wouldn't be surprised if he delivers it washed, waxed and tuned to perfection!"

"How is the Inspector?" Lewis asked, quickly, as Hogan gestured for him to follow her.

"He's fine," Hogan replied, "he was lucky, from the sounds of it – the bullet only nicked the skin and passed right by. A few stitches and a transfusion – he'll be back on his feet tomorrow."

"And you?"

"Fine, too," she gestured vaguely to the side of her bandaged head, "four stitches, don't get them wet, plenty of rest, and all that rubbish. How the bloody hell am I supposed to wash my hair if I can't get them wet? Silly buggers. Hey, do you fancy a pint when we're finished here?"

"Aye, okay… but, seriously…"

"Ah!" Hogan held up her hand, "Don't go there. You should've let me kill the bastard… but… thanks for stopping me. Okay?"

"…Okay."

* * *

Hogan led Lewis to a private room and, opening the door, let him inside, before closing it and assuming a guarding position in the corridor, granting him some privacy. Lewis was pleased to find Morse sitting up in bed, wearing a warm dressing down and covered by a thick blanket. His left arm was in a sling, but with his right hand he was completing a newspaper crossword on his lap in front of him. He glanced up as the door closed, and Lewis suddenly felt oddly uncomfortable.

"Oh… ah… hello, sir," he said, quickly, "I just dropped by to see how you were doing."

"Much better, thank you, Lewis," Morse set the newspaper aside, "Sergeant Hogan informs me that you arrested Jackson?"

"Well… he was somewhat incapacitated at the time, sir."

"So I hear. Hogan seemed somewhat evasive when explaining how he came to be injured. I can't say that I'm all that interested as long as he's behind bars, but get a written report on my desk for the Chief Super, will you? Tomorrow will be fine."

"Aye, sir," Lewis suppressed a sigh, "have they said when you can go home yet?"

"Tomorrow morning," Morse replied, as he picked up the newspaper and shook it open with one hand, "You can collect my car and pick me up. Hogan has my car keys, but don't let her drive…"

"No, sir," Lewis decided not to tell Morse who was actually driving the car, "I'll swing by in the morning, then."

Morse grunted by way of acknowledgment, already engrossed in the newspaper. Lewis smiled slightly, mumbled his goodbye, and quickly left the room. Hogan saw his expression, and grinned at him, flinging an arm across his shoulders.

"Now, about that pint you owe me…"

* * *

Jeremy Jackson was indicted by a magistrate in his absence, having refused to enter a plea. Two months later, Morse, Lewis, Hobson and Hogan gave evidence against him at his trial. As with their previous encounters, Jackson merely sat in the dock, handcuffed; head bowed, his back to the public gallery where a crowd of people had gathered to point and murmur.

Morse listened as the jury, after only twenty minutes of deliberation, returned a unanimous guilty verdict and Jackson was sentenced to life imprisonment. The prisoner was led from the dock and Morse unconsciously rubbed his left arm. The wound had healed, but there was a red-raw scar still apparent, one that would never entirely disappear.

He watched as Jackson was led away without a backward glance. Dr. Jefferson, Jackson's psychiatrist, had spoken as a witness for the defence, attempting to plead insanity for the man's actions, requesting he be sent to a maximum security psychiatric institution. Jefferson had gone so far as to submit that Jackson's 'ordeal of capture' and his injury had robbed him of his capacity and inclination to murder. He described Jackson's almost catatonic state even in his waking moments. However, this had been entirely dismissed by the jury and the Judge, to Morse's profound relief.

Once Jackson had been led away, the Court rose. The Judge left and the jury were filed out. The public and press gradually dispersed, and Morse found himself drifting with the others until they were stood outside in the cold winter sun. It was Dr Hobson that finally broke the silence.

"Well, I don't know about you boys, but I could certainly use a drink."

"That sounds like an excellent plan, my dear," Morse replied, absently.

"I am not 'your dear', Morse," Hobson reminded him, but there was a hint of a smile on her face as she spoke, "Come on – in honour of women's lib everywhere, I'll buy the first round."

She looped her hand through Morse's elbow, and then did the same to Lewis, adding; "Come on, Sergeant – you too. Hogan?"

"Right behind you, Laura."

"Excellent. Right then – to the pub!"

* * *

Finis

* * *

_**A/N: **As I was writing the final confrontation with Jackson, I realised (rather selfishly) that this was not how I wanted the story arc to end. Jackson just wasn't scary enough in this story; he was almost too damaged, in a way. His composure in the first two stories were what made him (to me) an interesting character to write, but he always had that undercurrent of unpredictable rage. So, instead of becoming the final chapter, this story is a stepping stone to a much more detailed story... I have already got the first 24,000+ words down; that is the story that I wanted to write, I just didn't realise it until I had finished this! Still, I hope that you enjoyed this, and I hope you will leave me a review to let me know that you've read it...!_

_Until next time... thanks for reading._

_RP._


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